


Prelude to a Dream

by galoots



Series: Loots Duck Universe (LDU) [2]
Category: Disney Duck Universe, Disney Ducks (Comics)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Non-Explicit, Parental Scrooge, Puberty, Teenage Drama, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-01-12 23:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galoots/pseuds/galoots
Summary: Puberty is hell for normal people. Imagine how hard it is for Donald Fauntleroy Duck. Now throw into a mix one saucy dream about your best friend Mickey Mouse, a whole host of new confusing feelings, a dash of insecurity, and a huge heaping of embarrassing, but supportive, parents. Welcome to the show, dear readers.





	1. The Bitch of Living

**Author's Note:**

> I'd suggest listening to The Bitch of Living from Spring Awakening while you read this chapter.

 

              Warm heat, a familiar face, building excitement and… Donald woke up with a start—minutes before his alarm sounded. He couldn’t remember the specifics of his dream, but its effect was all too evident judging from the sticky residue in his boxers. With a groan, he grabbed a tissue from his bedside to wipe himself off. His morning routine of sneaking off to the bathroom to rinse out his stained underwear before his uncle rose for the morning, or Duckworth came to remake his bed, was growing ever more embarrassing, not to mention tiresome. At least, he thought, as a consolation, Duckworth, usually on his case about his messy room or slovenly behavior, had said nothing. Since he handled all of the household’s laundry, he must have noticed the questionable stains on his bedsheets, but Duckworth—the perfect butler: loyal, hard-working, and most importantly, _discreet_ —turned a blind eye to Donald’s semi-frequent nightly emission. Puberty was enough of a trial on its own, and Donald certainly didn’t need either of his guardians to pry into a matter he already considered shameful on its own.

              Donald went about his morning ablutions: brushing his teeth, showering for school, and styling his hair. He posed in front of the half-fogged mirror wondering when he’d gain some muscle on his lanky frame. Mid-flex, the bathroom door opened, and his uncle strolled in. With a squawk, Donald jerked the bath towel wrapped around his waist up higher to cover his chest as well. “Uncle Scrooge! What the hell!”

              Unfazed, Scrooge positioned himself in front of the mirror in order to trim his feathery sideburns. “Language, Donald.” _Snip._ The feathery clippings fell into the sink as Scrooge went about his business. “Besides, there’s no need for embarrassment. I changed your diapers for years, after all. I’ve seen your tushie plenty of times.”

              Clutching at his towel, Donald glowered at him for talking about his ‘ _tushie’._ For Christ’s sake, he was thirteen now no longer a _child_ , yet Scrooge continued to act as if he were still his little duckling. He watched Scrooge clip his sideburns and wondered if he’d start to grow his own soon. He tried to imagine himself with facial feathers as he stared at their reflections in the mirror. His face was still so boyish… a beard would definitely make him look manlier. Like Scrooge. But even manlier. No longer would his uncle pinch his cheek and tell him how ‘cute’ he was. As if on cue, Scrooge set his clippers down before giving Donald a quick pinch on the cheek.

              “Admiring yourself in the mirror, lad?” He chuckled slightly. “You look very cute today, don’t you worry.”

Donald sighed heavily. “I don’t want to look cute, Uncle Scrooge. I want to look tough. And cool. I’m an _adult_ now.”

              “Of course, you are.” As he withdrew to his room, Donald could swear he saw Scrooge smirking reflection in the mirror. He needed to get dressed for the day ahead of him; he could tell it was going to be a long one.

 

* * *

 

              The only thing keeping Donald from falling asleep in his breakfast was the occasional crinkle of newsprint as his uncle read the financial section. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t even be eating breakfast. It didn’t matter how many times Donald explained to Scrooge how un-cool it was to eat breakfast because his uncle continually insisted they share breakfast. _What’s good for the body is good for the mind, lad._ What a load of phooey.

              What he couldn’t explain to Scrooge was skipping breakfast would enable him to catch the bus to school. No longer would he have to suffer the indignity of his uncle driving him there. Every morning it was the same routine: Scrooge would drop Donald off at Duckburg Middle School, and, before Donald could escape, he would demand a kiss goodbye. As much as Donald loved his uncle, he was growing sick and tired of the other seventh-graders laughing at him behind his back. The snide taunts of _daddy’s boy_ were not only grating, but severely damaging to the devil-may-care bad boy persona he was trying to cultivate. Donald Duck wasn’t a pushover, a pansy, or a loser. And he would _prove_ it. Somehow… He hadn’t figured out how exactly, but he’d find a way. Until then, he’d have to rely on his friends, Mickey and Goofy. They were an odd trio, for sure, but one that complemented each other in the best ways possible. A guy could do a lot worse than those two by his side, and Donald was lucky enough to have known them since preschool.

              “Donald don’t fall asleep in your breakfast. Duckworth made that special for you.” Like always, Scrooge had a sixth sense for nagging Donald; he didn’t even look up from his morning reading to scold him this time around. Donald looked grimly down at the eggs and bacon Duckworth had arranged into a smiley face. With his fork, Donald nudged the strip of bacon into a frown. There. _Now_ he could eat.

              Truth be told, he couldn’t quite place the source of his bad mood this specific morning. The exchange with his uncle in the bathroom hadn’t been too heinous, and, although his rude awakening hadn’t been ideal, it had happened enough times for Donald to adjust. So, what was the problem, then? It’s not like he needed a reason for his bad mood—he was, after all, Donald Duck—but he felt more off than he usual even for him.

              Maybe, he mused, it had something to do with the content of the dream that still troubled him. All well and good, he supposed, except for the fact he couldn’t recall the dream in full. A touch, warm heat, then… a voice? A familiar one, too. But crossing the thin veil between sleep and waking life had scrambled the substance until only a vestige was left in its place. He thought he had it within his grasp for a moment but, as soon as he thought he had it, it slipped from his fingers again.

              Whatever, it didn’t really matter. Donald shuffled the dream off to the back of his mind as he shoveled eggs into his beak and chugged his orange juice. Further examination would have to wait until later, for a more daunting task lay before him: navigating the twisting, perilous halls of Duckburg Junior High.

 

* * *

 

 

              Before Donald could even reach for the handle of the passenger car door, Scrooge had already told him to wait. Sinking into his seat a little further, he did his best to avoid the inevitable.

              “Give me a kiss before you go.”

              He rolled his eyes and huffed with exasperation, but he still did as he was told. He leaned in and gave his uncle a peck on the cheek. It was embarrassing to no end, his weakness for his uncle, even now, as a young _man,_ Donald still thought the world of him. Which had been fine, at least, up until Donald entered middle school when it suddenly became ‘uncool’ to hang out with your uncle. Even if said uncle was a world-traveler, an adventurer, and the world’s richest duck. Suddenly his stories of all the places his uncle had taken him, all the danger they had faced together, all the riches they had acquired—stories that used to thrill mobs of starry-eyed classmates during recess—became passé. If he was honest with himself, which he usually wasn’t, it bummed him out to adopt an apathetic affectation towards his uncle. He loved him, but more than that Scrooge was the only real family he had left. He had plenty of extended family, to be sure; in fact, too many to count, but with his parents gone… Well, there was no need to dwell on the past. The point was: Scrooge was all he had, and Donald was all his uncle had, since Scrooge had never had children of his own. So, could he really be blamed if he lingered a few moments more than the other kids when saying goodbye? They’d never known loss like he had, and they took their parent’s presence in their lives for granted. What if this moment was the last he’d ever see of Scrooge? There was no telling what the future held, and Donald worried about Scrooge when he wasn’t there to protect him. Scrooge was, like, a billion years old, and he had a million enemies after him. Donald could never be certain that Scrooge was safe.

              “Thank ye, laddie.” Scrooge ruffled the feathers on Donald’s head, and suddenly he felt reluctant to leave his side. He forced himself to shrug off the babyish need to cling to his uncle, for there was a whole day ahead of him. He’d need his wits about him in order to navigate the hellish highs and lows of adolescent life. Bidding Scrooge adieu, he hopped out of the car and made his way towards the school’s open, awaiting doors.

              Heading towards his locker, he scanned the hallways for his friends. Once he could find them, he was certain his funky mood would dispel. No one could stop Mickey’s unrelenting positivity or Goofy’s laidback, take-it-as-it-comes outlook on life. They’d set his head straight. There was no doubting that.

              As it would turn out, there was no need for his search since Mickey was already set on a collision course with Donald as his target. His mousey little friend, upon spotting Donald, booked it across the hallway with arms wide open. The force of his hug almost made him topple backwards, but Donald regained his balance with a self-deprecatory laugh.

              “Mornin’ Donald!” There was no mistaking that high-pitched squeak of delight, thought Donald.

              “Hey pal—” His eyes settled on Mickey’s face, beaming up at him from below, and a sickening click sounded in Donald’s head as the residue of his dream finally settled. He knew now who he’d been dreaming about.

              “Phooey.”


	2. The Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donald has to reckon with complicated and confusing new feelings after he realizes the subject of last's night dream was one of his best friends, Mickey. Good thing he has plenty of time to figure things out as soon as he finishes the day and can start the weekend. And- oh? What's that? He had a sleepover with Mickey and Goofy planned for this weekend that he forgot about? Oh boy. Here we go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord Almighty, I know this chapter took me forever to finish writing. Unlike Donald with his sleepover, I didn't forget about this fic, just got stuck while writing it then working on several other writing projects. The good news is I have the rest of the chapters completely planned out from beat to beat with some of the pivotal scenes in rough drafts already. The bad news I'll have much less time to write as I begin a second job, classes resume, I prep for graduation, and finish my thesis. C'est la vie. Take comfort in knowing I've planned this thoroughly to the end, my friends, and please patiently await the rest.

                For the very first time, Donald found himself cursing the rare good luck he’d received that had landed him so many classes with his friends. No matter the subject, no matter his seating, his unruly eyes would inevitably wandered over towards Mickey as if he had a magnetic pull. The willpower necessary to rein in his hovering gaze was draining all of his energy. If he couldn’t _keep_ his eyes away from something, then he’d have to divert them with something else. He began an intense, one-sided staring contest with the clock, watching the day crawl forward at a snail’s pace, each passing second testing his already too-short patience.

                He wanted to go home. He wanted to talk to his uncle, if not about his ‘problem’, then about anything at all. He’d even listen to Scrooge’s stories about the good old days. Sure, they usually bored him to tears, but boring could be nice from time to time. Boring was safe. Boring was predictable. Boring didn’t make your chest ache with confusion or twist your guts with agitation.

                No, the two of them could have a nice, boring evening, watching spaghetti westerns on the couch. He’d burrow into his uncle’s arms, and Scrooge would stroke his head like always. He’d feel safe and warm and cared for, instead of anxious and on edge like he did right now. Uncle Scrooge would know what to do, because Uncle Scrooge always knew what to do. All Donald had to do was last the day.

                The shrill ring of the school bell that marked the end of each period was the only variation to punctuate an otherwise tuneless 8-hour slog. Donald trudged through a litany of classes, restraining his gaze to the clock in each classroom. The steady drone of his teacher’s voices were an unrelenting assault that beat upon his eardrums. But Donald was nothing if not inexorable in the face of adversity. He barreled through his day like a soldier through line infantry, teeth clenched tight, ready for approaching harm, praying to God for deliverance. When the final bell of the day sounded, it fell upon his ears like a peal of church bells. Finally, he was home free. Weaving in between the other frantically dispersing teens, Donald rushed to his locker with his goal in sight. Home, his uncle, and sweet, sweet respite.

                What he hadn’t accounted for was Mickey and Goofy, waiting for him at his locker, ready to follow him home for the sleepover they had planned a week prior.

* * *

 

               

               Donald trailed slightly behind his friends as they walked, eyes trained on the ground. He couldn’t bring himself to focus on their conversation about the day’s events, choosing to zone out as he watched the cracks in the sidewalks pass underneath. He wasn’t superstitious like his cousin Gladstone, but he avoided stepping on them all the same, lest Scrooge somehow break his back.

                Goofy and Mickey’s households inhabited the same block, on opposite sides of the road. Donald, who’d never turn down a visit to the Mouskewitz’s home, followed Mickey to his porch while Goofy ran across the street towards his own home. They both needed to grab their overnight bags, and splitting up was the quickest way to get the task done.

                Before opening the door, Mickey kissed the tips of his fingers and touched them to the mezuzah affixed on his doorpost. He opened the front door and walked into an entryway that branched off in three directions. Facing the front door was a stair case that led to the bedroom’s upstairs. On the first few steps, sat one of Mickey’s many older sisters, Penny, phone in hand and thumbs flying over the keyboard. Without looking up, she greeted the two of them. “Hey Donald. Hey twerp.”

                Mickey let out an _ugh_ and greeted his sister with flat exasperation. Donald gave her a half-wave he wasn’t sure Penny even saw as Mickey started up the stairs, turning back to tell Donald he’d only be a moment. The pitter-patter of Mickey’s feet on the staircase steps grew quieter as he moved farther away, replaced by the _click-clack_ of Penny’s typing. He expected to wait here in relative silence, allowing Penny to benignly ignore him, but recognized the type of phone in her hands and marveled aloud at it.

                “Woah,” Donald said, “is that a Motorola Razr?”

                Penny looked up in mild surprise, shutting her phone with an audible _clack._ She leaned back to examine Donald, her elbows situated on the stairs behind her. She held the phone with a loose grip as if to say _oh this old thing?_

“Pretty cool, right?” she replied.

                “Totally. I’d kill for a phone like that.”

                “Don’t have one?”

                From his pocket, Donald pulled out an item that more closely resembled a brick than an actual phone. “All I have is this.”

                Penny pulled a face. “Ew, a Nokia? That’s whack.”

                Donald laughed a little and shrugged. “My uncle won’t pop for anything expensive, even though he’s, like, _the_ richest duck in the world.”

                A scoff of solidarity. “Ohmigod. Parents, right? My dad is always on my case about going over my minutes. Its, like, if you’re gonna complain when I go over, then buy the unlimited plan!”

                “Don’t get me started. My uncle is always tripping out over stuff like that.”

                “The worst.” Penny twirled her bracelet around her wrist, a thoughtful look coming over her. “Hey, shouldn’t you be in detention right now for beating up Peter Gottfredson?”  

                Feeling self-conscious that she knew he’d gotten in trouble, Donald reflexively rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah, I was able to weasel out of it. I only picked a fight with him ‘cause he wouldn’t leave little Benjy Wisniewski alone. So as long as I promised to grab an adult next time instead of ‘resorting to violence,’ they’d let me off.”

                “Lucky you. Guess it pays to stick up for the little guy, huh.”

                “Guys like Peter Gottfredson need to learn to pick on people his own size.”

                “Like you?” she said, sliding her eyes up and down his body.

                “Yeah.” Donald puffed out his chest in pride.

                Penny laughed at his peacock-like display. “You’re cute. But you realize your even shorter than I am, right? You are one of the little guys.”

                His chest deflated as he scrambled to recover from the blow. He bit back a petulant cry of _I’m still growing!_ There was no faster way to sound like a total weenie in front of an eighth-grader. With a self-important _a-hem_ , Donald leaned against a near-by wall.  “Doesn’t matter. I still thrashed that jerk. I’d do it again too.” He flipped his bangs with an air of dramatics. “’Sides, what I lack in height, I make up in fighting spirit.”

                A smile spread across Penny’s face. “Alright, I’ll give you that. You did win after all. I just wanted to know if my little bro was hanging with a thug or not. Turns out he’s hanging with a hero, not a zero.”

                Donald couldn’t discern whether Penny’s tone was one of amusement or mockery. He hoped it wasn’t the latter.

                Penny pushed off her elbows to learn forward on her knees, flipping her phone back open. “What’s your number? We should text sometime.”

                Donald swallowed his shock, stammering out his number while Penny punched it into her contacts. She was only a year older than him, but they’d never spoken much before, at least not outside of the odd class they shared or with Mickey there to facilitate. He barely had a moment to process what just happened as Mickey

                Mickey trundled back down the stairs with a duffel bag flung over his slight shoulder. He was trying to push past his sister on the staircase. “Move your fat butt, Penny!” He yelled as he pushed past her on the staircase. In retaliation, Penny kicked Mickey in the buttock with surprising accuracy.

“Penelope,” Their mother had rounded the corner, drawn by the tell-tale sounds of sibling’s fighting to chide them both. “Leave your little brother alone. Mishka, don’t antagonize your sister.”

Mrs. Mouskewitz, dressed in her usual paint-splattered smock, stood, with an imposing air that defied her short stature, in the adjoining hallway, laundry basket balanced on her hip. Both siblings mumbled half-hearted apologies to their mother then each other. Penny gave Donald a mute wave before retreating up the stairs to her room.

                With a skirmish avoided, Mrs. Mouskewitz turned her attention to their guest, dropping her heavy burden on the floor with a thud.

                “Donald!” Her eyes lit up as she cupped his face in her hands to properly examine him. “You are looking more and more handsome every time I see you. Mishka, you didn’t tell me Donald was turning into such a handsome young man!”

                “Hi, Mrs. Mouskewitz,” Donald mumbled through smooshed cheeks. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mickey cringe with embarrassment over his mother’s effusive praise. Donald smiled inwardly. He didn’t mind.

 Mrs. Mouskewitz’s fawning might embarrass his friend, but Donald cherished it. To his mind, Mickey’s mom was all that a mother should be: warm, inviting, a bit of a nag, but only ever out of care . She was funny and engaging, treating her children’s friends like part of the family while somehow never talking down to them. All in all, Donald imagined she was the kind of mum his own mother might have been—if she had been still with them. But that wasn’t a thought on which Donald liked to dwell, so he pushed it away to enjoy Mrs. Mouskewitz’s fussing over him.

                She pinched the thin layer of fat that covered his stomach and tsked at the paltry handful she found there. “Is your uncle feeding you enough? You are as skinny as a rail! I can practically see your ribs poking through your t-shirt.”

                “Mom!” Mickey complained, shooting her a look to cut out her behavior.

                Mrs. Mouskewitz’s didn’t respond but gave Donald a knowing look, like they were sharing a joke that no one else knew the punchline to. He smiled conspiratorially back, not quite certain what the joke was, but happy to be included. Mickey’s mum had a way of absorbing you in to her presence, making you feel like old friends regardless of how brief the time you may have actually known her to be.

                “How goes the painting Mrs. M?” He was all too happy to keep the ball rolling, no matter how much Mickey might grouse from the sidelines. Besides, just as he’d known Mickey his whole life, he had known his mother too, and he loved her as if she were his own.

                “Oh, Donald. I’m so glad you asked! I just finished a lovely abstract earlier this afternoon. A conceptual piece! I call it Bloodied and Bruised Outside of Reno.” She spread her hands out, pantomiming an invisible marquee before waving him over to follow her. “Come, I have to show it to you. You’ll _love_ it.”

                He was sure he would. Mrs. Mouskewitz’s paintings were Kandinsky-like convulsions of color and shape that never failed to resonate with him. Mrs. Mouskewitz, he dreamily romanticized, was an artistic rebel just like him who struck at the creative core of reality and always challenged the status quo. He admired her works greatly and had hung the composition he’d received as last year’s birthday present upon the wall in his room. Many hours, he had spent, examining it in an attempt to analyze and puzzle out its themes.

                His migration towards her was interrupted by a small hand grabbing his own, dragging him away from its mother and back out through the front door. The sensation of the little furry hand grasping his own made his heart skip a beat like a needle skirting over a scratch in a record. Even so, Mickey still wasn’t strong enough to actually drag him out the door, so he hung back to tender his goodbye, promising to return to see the painting at a later date.  

                As Mickey slowly dragged him over the threshold of the door, his mother called after them, “Join us for a family dinner sometime. Ok, Donald? You’re welcome anytime.”

                Mickey had moved to shut the door, but Donald managed to shoot Mrs. Mouskewitz a thumb-up before it closed. As Donald followed an adorably perturbed Mickey over to meet back up with Goofy, he belatedly realized he’d never gotten the chance to tell Penny his phone was supposed to be emergency-only. The looming threat of Scrooge clutching an expensive phone bill coupled with the uncertainty of his own heart made for sinister bedfellows in his mind, brewing a cloud of anxiety that stalked him he led his friends back home.    

* * *

 

                To Donald’s surprise, his arrival at home was not received by Duckworth, or his Puppa as he called him, like usual, but rather his uncle. Scrooge was a hard-working man and his work-days didn’t end until 5pm at the very least. A reality Donald didn’t love but tolerated all the same—using the intervening two hours until Scrooge arrived home to attend to his homework or devote to his various hobbies. It could get lonely at times, even with Puppa here, as he was often engaged with the minutiae of running the manor and Scrooge’s affairs. Donald never complained but silently, in his heart, he envied other children with their stay-at-home parents or siblings to keep them occupied.

                Scrooge was descending the main staircase carefully, a hand on the banister and a cane to maneuver each step. “Hello boys!”

                Donald plunked his backpack down in the spot his Puppa had designated before rushing over to return the greeting. “Uncle Scrooge! You’re home?”

                “Decided to work from home today.” Scrooge ruffled Donald’s head as he passed by him on his way to the kitchen. “Had a few repair jobs to oversee at the manor.” Stuffed under his arm was a folder thick with what looked like receipts, no doubt the papers Scrooge had been overseeing. “Don’t let me ruin your fun. I’m just off to grab some tea before I get back to work.”

                Duckworth emerging from the kitchen, smiled at Scrooge, patting him affectionately on the shoulder while holding the door open for him to pass through. He whispered something to Scrooge as he walked under the outstretched arm that propped open the door. It was too soft for the boys to make out, but the pattern of his lips seemed to mouth the phrase _I love you._

Laying his eyes on Donald and his crew, he smiled with the practiced grace of a man trained to receive others, before he dropped the pretense to greet them. “Hello, poppet. Afternoon, gents. Good day at school?”

                His friends knew that Duckworth was a part of the family, even before he and Scrooge had begun dating. Mickey and Goofy responded like they would to any of their friend’s parents with the same noncommittal teen response at the ready.        

“S’ok.” Donald shrugged. Seeing Scrooge was an unexpected happenstance he felt compelled to follow.  “Um, Puppa… can you take my friends to my room? I should probably, uh, help Uncle Scrooge,” he paused as he searched for a reason, “oh, uh, carry his tray back to his office! He looked like his hands were full!”

                Mild surprise passed over Duckworth’s face but he nodded and gestured for the young men to follow him with a swoop of his hands, “Michael. Goofus. If you’d follow me.”

                “I’ll be with you guys in a moment, ok?” His friends looked slightly puzzled but shot him gestures of approval as they followed Duckworth up the stairs. With everything sorted, Donald dashed off towards the kitchen, opening the door and rushing through at breakneck speed and smashing directly into the broad frame of Scrooge’s back.

                 “Oof, Donald?” Scrooge turned around, his face still pink with the remnants of a blush and steadied his reeling nephew by placing his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Is something wrong?” Any surprise quickly gave way to concern as he registered his nephew’s presence here and the absence of his friends. “Don’t you want to spend time with your friends?”

                The sudden weight of his uncle’s compassionate worry tested the walls of Donald’s emotional dam. The day’s pent-up stress had already strained the bulging walls; the additional force proved too much, breaking open the floodgate all at once. He opened his beak to speak but was startled to hear a sob flow out in place of an explanation. Once he had buckled, it was too late, and he couldn’t stop the torrent of overwhelmed sobs that ensued. Hiccupping and sniffling, Donald buried his face in his uncle’s stomach, holding on to him tightly so he wouldn’t be washed away.

                Caught off-guard, Scrooge, for a moment, did not react, but his paternal instincts kicked in shortly after and he began to rub his nephew’s back while he sobbed. “There, there. What’s the matter?”

                A muffled whine, obscured through tears and cloth, was all he could decipher. If Donald was too upset to talk then he’d have to resort to guesswork. Perhaps something bad had happened at school? Scrooge was no stranger to the occasional call from the school’s administration by now. And although Donald’s behavior was often _‘reactionary,’_ it was usually not malicious, but the resulting strike of misdirected anger against perceived injustices. Like the recent incident with the Gottfredson boy, Donald stubbornly stuck to the convictions that spurred his actions, emboldened by the faculty’s reprimands. He was far from the kind of child who’d buckle under admonishment, especially not to the point of tears. It seemed unlikely one specific event caused this, and Scrooge figured he would have received a phone call long before Donald would have made it home had this been the case.

                All had seemed well between him and his friends, the familiar trio’s silhouette foyer never failed to dispel any looming gloom with cheer in its place. But it could be that Donald had quarreled with them, an inevitability amongst even the closest of friends. Yet this didn’t seem the case, since his friends had willingly accompanied Donald home for their schedule sleepover.   

                Maybe he had lost something? Something precious? His ward could be forgetful, but he was rarely one to cry over spilt milk. Besides, most of Donald’s most treasured items—the model sailboat they had painstakingly glued together piece by piece one afternoon, the beat-up old guitar his older cousin Della had given him, the painting of Mrs. Malcah Mouskewitz that hung in his bedroom—were not objects that Donald was careless with. Nor were they possessions Donald would haphazardly tote along to school in the first place.  

                He felt a damp spot form on his coat, the result of Donald’s tears. He let out a compassionate tut, there was only one thing to it then, he knew his nephew well enough to warrant out the cause without an explanation. “Having a no-good crummy day?”

                Finally, Donald nodded. So that was it then. Scrooge smoothed Donald’s cowlick with a concerned hand and laid a kiss upon his head. “Ach, my poor little Donnie.”

                Rocking him back-and-forth in his arms, Scrooge thought of the consolations his mother used to ply him with. He let his Scottish accent seep thickly into his words. “Calmy doony, lad. It’s goin’ ta’ be awricht once the pain has gane away.”

Earlier that morning, he’d noticed that his nephew seemed off, but he often was these days, waking up in the morning on the wrong side of the bed that stalked him throughout the day until he’d crawled back in for a night’s rest. Donald had always been a sensitive child: quick to bad moods and despondency, but he always had reason for an upset, even if they didn’t always make sense to Scrooge. Sometimes they cleared all their own. Other times they did not. That was when Scrooge stepped in. Over the years, he’d become skilled in the art of comfort, knowing how to soothe his upset nephew, conscious of the proper time to step off and leave him be and when to lay a soothing hand to the situation. Right now, with his nephew crying in his arms, too upset to tell him why, was a moment to soothe, not to press.

                “Don’t worry sweetheart. Things will be fine.” Scrooge continued to pet Donald’s head. “Do you want me to think of a reason to send your friends home? You can blame your old fuddy-duddy uncle for canceling your plans.”

Donald let out a loud sniff then tilted his head up to look at his uncle with teary eyes. “…No.” He wiped tears from his face with one hand. “I want them to stay.”

                Fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, Scrooge held it to Donald’s beak and instructed him to blow. After Donald honked his runny nose, Scrooge deposited the soiled handkerchief on a nearby table.

                “Alright then. Just needed a hug and a good cry?”

                Scrooge felt Donald nod against his stomach where he had buried his face again. He placed a finger on his nephew’s chin and tilted his face up to get a look at his face. It was red and puffy from crying. Pinching his chubby cheek, Scrooge donned the smile of a sympathetic parent, worried for their child. “We all need that from time to time. Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll get you a cold washcloth for your face. Let Unkie Scrooge take care of you. I’ll make you some tea and you can coorie in with me in my rocking chair for a spell. When you feel ready, you can head back to your friends.”

                Donald smiled, a bittersweet little curl of the lips as his uncle pulled away to put on a pot of tea. Uncle Scrooge always knew what to do. Sometimes without him ever needing to say a word. 

* * *

              When he’d been sufficiently calmed and the puffiness had faded from his face, Donald made his way back to his friends. He generated an excuse for his extended absence, something to do with Scrooge needing help with a task in his office that delayed his return, that his friends seemed to buy.

              Despite the tumult of his arrival home, the rest of the day moved along with surprising ease once Donald had vented his frustration a bit. The boys joked and jabbered, playing videogames, watching movies, and spending idle time together as they always did. Still, not all was well and good, and little things dogged Donald as they enjoyed their activities. The scent of Mickey’s fur, fruity from shampoo, distracting and enrapturing him when it tickled accidentally at his beak as Mickey leaned across him on the couch. The feeling of his warm thigh pressed against his own as they huddled into the computer chair to watch videos online. The way his heart leapt in tandem with the pitch of Mickey’s voice when it broke, a high-pitched squeak breaking up his words. Things he’d never noticed or dwell upon previously caught his attention and held it captive. His stomach wobbled, like it did when he was nervous, but in a tremulous way that wasn’t quite from fear. It was unlike the nerves that made his knees knock together loudly when he auditioned for the school play. Nor like the adrenaline rush that burst from the pit of his stomach when he’d thrown a fist square into Peter Gottfredson’s stupid face.  

                No, it was a fluttering sensation in his stomach, like a second heart lived there, that made him light-headed and weak. He felt sick and sore but invigorated nevertheless as if he were in peak condition. The feeling spurred him to affix a nervous idiotic grin upon his face, laugh too hard at Mickey’s jokes, and hang on his every word. He felt exhausted and excited, jittery and bold, simultaneously wanting to make a scene of himself while also hiding himself away. His skin prickled with the impact of a million little stars, invisible to the eye, but palpable in a physical way. Donald felt like someone had struck him hard with some blunt object and instead of the pain of a wound, he felt inflamed and beguiled. It was utterly mystifying to Donald. He couldn’t puzzle it out. He hated the feeling in equal measure to loving it. Given the choice, he wasn’t sure if he’d squash the feeling with his heel or scoop it up into a jar to preserve and keep it safe.

                Hours passed with fleeting fun as Donald’s head swirled with this new feeling, until it was finally time for bed. Scrooge had come to enact light’s out as strict as ever when it came to bedtime. He wished everyone a goodnight, tucking them in and checking final requests before slumber. But no one needed glasses of water, extra pillows, or one last trip to the lavatory, so Scrooge flipped the light switch with an audible click and left the boys to slumber in the dark. Almost in time with the flipping of the switch, Goofy fell asleep, snoring away as he did every time they had a sleepover. Donald marveled at just how quickly Goofy could fall asleep no matter how many times he’d seen it before. It was amazing to see someone fall asleep the moment their head hit the pillow, especially when it often took himself several hours to wind down enough to sleep. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t drop off into a doze right away because he hear a distinct _psst_ noise coming from the direction of Mickey’s sleeping bag. In a hushed tone, Donald responded to Mickey’s surreptitious interjection, careful not to wake their friend nor alert his guardian.

                “What’s up, Mick?”

                He heard the shuffle of Mickey’s nylon sleeping bag as his friend rolled onto his side to whisper into his ear.

                “I don’t want to sleep just yet. I’d rather talk.”

He grunted in agreement. Late night talks were what sleepovers were for.

“It must be really fun living with Scrooge, huh?” Mickey whispered, apropos of nothing.

                “I guess so.” He hedged in response before adding in, “He takes good care of me.” In all honesty, Donald never thought of Scrooge as an _enviable_ parental figure. He loved him, that was certain, and he wouldn’t trade him for the world, but he was often singled out for the dual curse of his orphaned status and the notoriety of being Scrooge McDuck’s nephew. Too often did people tut with pity over his parent’s unfortunate demise, shaking their heads while they muttered how sad it must be for a child to grow up without ever knowing the tender love and affection of a mother or father. Too often did people fail to hone the decency needed not to misuse his trust for an opportunity to get on his uncle’s good side. Far too often did his classmates make pejorative comments about him thinking he was better than everyone because he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Of course, the pitiful boy misbehaved in school, adults would say, we’d blame his parents except he hasn’t got em! Of course, the splendid little thing could do as he please, providing he’d put in a good word for me to your uncle, others would say, attempting to ingratiate themselves. Of course, the stuck-up jerk doesn’t get along with anyone else, what would you expect from a rich man’s only kin.

It was alienating and unfair, but he felt ungrateful for thinking that way in the first place. After all, he was lucky to have his Uncle Scrooge and Puppa Duckworth, they by no means were obligated to care for him. They were his family, no doubt, by blood or by choice. Especially since Scrooge and Duckworth had officially began dating, their little oddball trio was feeling more and more like a proper family. So, he’d stubbornly insist until he was blue in the face that Scrooge and Duckworth were better than a mother and father, while he secretly wondered what life might be like were his parents still around. Would he have been a well-behaved student? Would he have been popular with his classmates? Would others treat him with no degree of partiality or hostility?

                Donald quietly spoke, “Uncle Scrooge is cool, the coolest even…” He trailed off, uncertain of how to speak his mind without tipping his hand. If his parents were alive, would he have had siblings like Mickey did? “But… I bet it’s even more fun living with all your sisters. You’d never get lonely.”  

Mickey made an amused scoff. “No way, my sisters are annoying. They’re total pains in the butt. Literally! You saw Penny kick me today.”

Silence hung in the dark room for an instant, where Mickey had expected at least a sympathetic chuckle in response. With hesitation, he began to speak again, words interspersed with uncertain pauses. “Do you get lonely?

                Donald shrugged his shoulders, even though he knew Mickey could not see his movement in the dark. “It can get kind of lonesome when Uncle Scrooge and Puppa are busy.” This was not something he’d admit without the shroud of darkness and the singular quality of a late-night talk at a sleepover with your best friend. “My uncle works a lot…” He wasn’t sure what to say beyond that.

                The two teenagers listened to Goofy’s soft snuffling’s for a stretch of time, eyes open in the but unable to see without the light. He was unsure of how much time had passed, but he judged it was significant, as he had begun to doze off when Mickey spoke again.

                “Hey Donald?” His friend’s voice sounded strangely distant despite the proximity of Mickey’s voice in his ear.

                “Yeah, Mick?”

                “Do you ever have dreams that are kind of… rude?”

                Donald stifled a nervous, frightened giggle at Mickey’s turn of phrase, swallowing thickly down with the strain one’d need to gulp down a rock. If he laughed now, Mickey might think he was laughing at him, so he tried to control and even his breath while he thought of how to answer. “Um, my uncle says we’re at the age where… your body is going totally haywire with all these new thoughts and feelings. And… it’s a lot to process so it all gets jumbled up in your head, and when your brain tries to sort it all out, it does so while you sleep. In your dreams.” He thought of the last night’s dream, the unsettling reaction it had set in motion, and the mysterious feelings that had overtaken him. “So before when you’d be dreaming about stuff like flyin’ around town like a superhero or… fightin’ a bunch of dino’s or flunkin’ tests or whatever, now becomes dreams about…” His mouth moved silently like a fish gasping for water on land as he searched for what to call these dreams. “Other…. Stuff,” He eventually concluded. A flicker of heat in his guts when he thought of the particular of _his_ dream, it’s ensuing gratification giving way quickly to shame and discomfort. “It’s a natural, normal part of growing up.” Donald repeated what his uncle had told him, forgetting Mickey’s presence for a moment and speaking it aloud as if to remind himself. Right, it was normal. And he knew this to be true because Scrooge said so. The memory of the dream’s heat, his own discomfort, and washing out his sticky boxers reasserted itself in his head. “Even if it’s a total pain in the butt.” He firmly stated.

                A pregnant moment passed as Donald wondered if he had said too much, revealed something meant to go unseen.

                Mickey spoke again, “Do you like anyone right now?”

                “I’m not…” Donald shuffled around in his sleeping bag, feeling too hot all of a sudden and keenly uncomfortable. Was this question related to the previous one in Mickey’s head? Or was he changing the subject? “I’m not… really sure of anything right now. But I guess someone’s been on my mind as of late.” Vague without giving anything away—that was the way to play it, Donald thought. He didn’t have to lie if he chose his words carefully. His head was swirling with exhaustion as he stayed up far past his bedtime.

                “Do I know them?”

                “Um,” Donald’s mind stalled, gears churning uselessly in his head. “Yeah, I’d say you know them pretty well. “

                “Oh.” He heard Mickey’s short intake of air, a breath that sounded like he was gathering himself to push for more information. Before Mickey could release his exhale, they heard the soft _clop_ of spats on tiled floors approaching the door. No doubt it was Scrooge, intending to check if the boys were asleep as they should be. The two of them shuttered their eyes and mouths, feigning sleep and hoping not to get caught. No reprimand came as Scrooge walked around checking on each boy: nudging Goofy’s head back onto the pillow it had slipped from, pulling the cover of Mickey’s sleeping bag snugly up to his chin, and pressing a soft and loving kiss to Donald’s head. He heard the soft shuffling of his uncle’s feet punctuated by the tap of his cane upon the floor receding into the distance as he slowly succumbed to sleep          

* * *

              The next morning, Donald woke with a drowsy start to the sound of Goofy’s snores as he continued to slumber away. First to bed, last to rise. That was Goofy alright, he thought with fond respect. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and noticed the sleeping bag lying next to him. Curiously, Mickey’s sleeping bag lay open but unoccupied, and a hand placed in the sunken outline his friend left behind revealed the residual warmth of body heat. He must not have been gone very long. Yawning as he stretched, Donald kicked the cover of his sleeping bag off him to go in search of his friend. His inquiry was quickly solved however, as he immediately spied Duckworth leading Mickey down the hallway when he exited his room. Mickey looked quite small behind Duckworth, following his path with sheepish steps. The pair noticed him watching, and Mickey averted his eyes away from Donald, clutching something tightly to his chest. It was a plastic bag with something inside that resembled wet cloth. It looked like Mickey had gone to Duckworth for help with something that Donald sleep-addled head was sluggishly puzzling together. Donald opened his beak to ask what they were doing but Duckworth spoke before Donald could formulate his question.

“Good morning, Donald.” Noticing Donald’s mild sleepy confusion and cognizant of Mickey’s shrinking figure behind his back, he defaulted to a tried and true diversion. “Luv, why don’t you go mix up breakfast for you and your friends? We have all the ingredients for pancakes.”

                Donald’s face lit up, dispelling any suspicious curiosity. He hopped to it right away, taking off for the kitchen without a moment of hesitation. Eating breakfast might be lame, but cooking it was not. Donald loved to cook, and was getting quite good at it, but it wasn’t easy to wrest control of the kitchen away from his Puppa. So, any opportunity to act as head chef, was a huge incentive to even motivate a sleepy teen to excitement on a Saturday morning. Besides, pancakes _were_ his specialty.

                While he whipped everything together, flipping pancakes as his family and his guests filed into the breakfast nook, Donald forgot all about his inquiry into the event earlier this morning. Later, all he could remember was that Mickey was unusually timid during breakfast, quieter than he usually was around his friends. Donald didn’t have a chance to pursue why over the pancake-stuffed chatter and settled for the simple explanation that Mickey had been too tired to talk. Eventually, breakfast came to an end, bags were packed, goodbyes were exchanged, and friends were picked up by bright-eyed and coffee-fueled parents.

                With everyone gone, Donald made his way to the living room where he suspected he’d find Scrooge, reclining in his usual spot on the couch to read the morning paper. True to his hunch, Scrooge was exactly where he’d thought he’d be, leafing through the financial section as he finished his morning tea. Donald climbed onto the couch to join him, wiggling his head through the gap of Scrooge’s arm that held the paper. He crawled his way into Scrooge’s lap so that his head was situated on his uncle’s stomach. He let his feet dangle off the edge of the couch cushion as he settled in.

                Once he’d settled, Scrooge folded his newspaper and tucked it under his other arm. “Hello there, cuddle-bug. How was your sleepover?”

                Donald answered with a huge yawn. “Fun. ‘m sleepy though.” Truthfully, he was happy his friends had left. Hanging with Goofy and Mickey was always fun, no matter what, but sometimes it was nice to be alone with your family. Now it was only Scrooge, Donald, and Duckworth in the house. Just like it ought to be.

                Scrooge wrapped an arm around Donald’s balled up figure, humming thoughtfully. Donald felt the reverberations vibrate down his uncle’s chest to his stomach and into his head.

                “You seemed upset yesterday when you came home. Anything you want to talk about, lad?”

                “No.” With his ear pressed up against Scrooge’s stomach, he could hear it gurgle and squelch as it digested their breakfast. It wasn’t the loveliest sound in the world, but Donald liked it. He found it comforting. “Not yet, at least. I’m still trying to put my thoughts in order.”

                Scrooge stroked the feathers of his nephew’s head. “I’ll be here.”

                “I know.” Donald closed his eyes. “But right now, it’s Donald Time!”

                His head bounced a little as Scrooge laughed. “And here I was, thinking that you had grown out of all that.”

                “Nuh-uh.” No one was here to tease Donald for being babyish, so he was free to enjoy Scrooge’s company however he wished. “There’s a proper time and place for these things, Unca.”

                “Well, I’m glad to hear that you’re not _too cool_ for your Uncle Scrooge, after all.”

                Donald murmured, in a voice almost too soft to hear but still audible, into Scrooge’s lap. “ _I_ think you’re cool.”

                He knew his uncle had heard him, and he appreciated how Scrooge let the remark pass without a teasing reply. There’d be time to sort out the tangled threads in his head, lay it all out, and pick with his fingers at the knot. There’d be time to sort through all those threads with his Uncle Scrooge and weave them into something cohesive he could understand. Right now, he was happy to be lying in the lap of someone who loved him unconditionally, who’d stroke his head when he was sad or weary, who’d come to kiss him goodnight long after he and his friends had all fallen asleep.

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, it took a long time to actually write out this chapter. Sorry about that. I'll upload a little extra "bonus chapter" in a bit where you can read some meta about writing this chapter as well as an explanation for what a mezuzah is for the uninformed. Read on if you're interested, but feel free to skip over it if you want to enjoy the story on its own. I'm the sort of person that will always read every label at a museum or replay a game to listen to its commentary so this kind of stuff really appeals to me, but I know its not everyone's jam. If you do like it and want more of it in the future (for this fic and others) let me know. I usually keep an informal diary in my head while I work on my writing about certain choices I made and what not. No I don't know why I do this. Bye. Leave a comment you stinkers.


	3. Notes to Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author notes to Chapter 2!

Boy, it took a long time to actually write out this chapter. Sorry about that. I hit a wall with it and needed a break. A lot of the scenes I was struggling with ended up being cut or trimmed down. For instance, originally I had Mickey and Goofy explicitly remind Donald about the sleepover, but I realized it was pretty boring and unnecessary. I didn't need to tediously walk the reader through it when exposition could suffice. 

It's funny, often the hardest part of fiction writing for me is not writing dialogue or prose, but all the connective tissue between a character's dialogue. That's why my dialogue heavy stuff takes longer. Writing the tags between the dialogue isn't very thrilling or necessarily my strong suit. It's usually the parts that get rewritten the most while the dialogue often stays mostly untouched from the first time I write it out. 

Ultimately, I realized if I focused on the core of the beginning-the deeper look into where Donald's head is at exactly and the set-up with Penny where they trade phone numbers (you'll see later down the line why)-it was easier to pick up this piece and continue writing. Its important to know when to cut the fat from your work. Kill your darlings, folks. 

A side note for my readers who aren't familiar with western knowledge, there's an old rhyme that goes "step on a crack, break your mother's back." I remember following this superstition a lot when I was little, even though I knew it wasn't logical. Donald's a little on the old side here to enjoy the childlike game-ifying aspect of it and instead becomes a point of anxiety for him. Very telling for his character and where his head is at currently in his emotional journey.

"Galoots!" I hear you ask. "What's a mezuzah?"  
In Jewish homes you can find a thin, rectangular box on the doorpost, it's a couple inches long, usually placed at a slant. Inside the mezuzah is a parchment, klaf, with a verse from the Torah inscribed on it. When you pass through a doorway with a mezuzah you are supposed to touch it every time, some people kiss their fingers before or after they do so. It's a ritual in Jewish tradition that's meant to remind you to reflect on the unity of God, but its something that most Jews follow even those who aren't religiously observant. My family never did, however, because my Dad had divorced himself from the faith he was raised with long before any of us were born.

The conversation with the phones was absolutely indulgent on my part of my own early 2000's childhood nostalgia. A lot of the slang we used back then sounds impossibly cheesy nowadays, but man did we say stuff like "that's whack, man." Nothing could beat the flip phone swag in middle school. If you had a Motorola RAZR you were seriously hot-shit. So you know Penny's a cool chick. Or one of those phones that slid open to reveal a full keyboard. Funny how things have shifted completely away from physical buttons.

Speaking of Mickey's family, I spent a lot of time thinking about them. They're going to show up a lot in the later chapters of this story. His sister's (he has many, all older), his father, and his mother will all have their share of the limelight. Unlike Donald, Mickey doesn't have quite so developed family tree or characterization in terms of cultural identity. I went the Maus/American Tail route of mouse characters being used to represent Jewish identity, specifically that of Jewish-American's. Hence, "Mouse" is the anglicized form of their original last name, "Mouskewitz." Additionally, Mickey has a Hebrew name, Mikhail, and his family has diminutive nicknames for him like, Mishka. I ended up really getting into Mickey's family and as a result they ended up asserting themselves a lot more in the narrative than I originally intended. Which, in turn, made way for more Mickey-focalized scenes later on. The Mouskewitz household is a very lively one that contrasts the frankly sort of absent, under-populated feeling of Donald's home. We'll spend more time here for certain.

I quite like Mrs. Mouskewitz specifically. A fun fact, I gave her my Hebrew middle name! Malcah. It means Queen. I knew she was a painter from the outset but it became more important as I realized it helped form her link to Donald. Some things you plan and some things come about organically. The importance of Mrs. Mouskewitz being a painter and how it shapes Donald's view of her asserted itself. I imagine her paintings to look a lot like Kandinsky's Composition VII. That kind of improvisational, expressive abstract style that focuses more on subjective feeling rather than representation was a perfect fit for Donald's own artistic sensibilities and temperament.

When we finally get to the house, we learn a couple things that have developed in the interim of Parenting Ain't Easy. Scrooge and Duckworth are officially dating, and Donald sees Duckworth as one of his parental figures, equal to Scrooge. I'll explore the nature of Duckworth and Scrooge's relationship in their own separate work about their shared history and the circumstances through which they get together. Since I want all my fics to be able to be read on their own as well as part of a series, it was imperative that I make that information explicit here.

The scene where Scrooge comforts Donald was one of the first I wrote for this chapter. It began as Scrooge suggesting all these situations to Donald until he lands on the right one, but I refined it as I went along. In the end, I quite like how it turned out with Scrooge being able to intuit what's wrong because he knows Donald so well. Comfort scenes are among my favorite to write and I love how Scrooge code switches into Scottish slang. Calmy doony is what it sounds like, a Scottish way to say calm down. "It’s goin’ ta’ be awricht once the pain has gane away" is fairly self-explanatory I think. "Coorie in" means to cuddle up which Scrooge and Donald do their fair share of in this chapter.

Then we get to another bit where I struggled to push on. Originally, I envisioned a long drawn out section of the boy's hanging out with lots of dialogue and Donald's burgeoning crush on Mickey. But as it struggled to come together, I realized it was fairly unnecessary to the story and moving the plot along. Unfortunately, this meant Goofy's role was greatly reduced to an ancillary character but ultimately the story isn't about him, but the changing nature of Mickey and Donald's friendship and the struggles of adolescence. Way more important then just three teen boys hanging out and having fun. 

Another thing I didn't foresee asserting itself is Donald's emotional relationship with his deceased parents. The more I wrote about the feelings in his head, the more it made sense to me that he'd be thinking a lot about his parents at the current juncture. He's coming into adulthood and starting to develop the faculties to critically engage with the world and question the status quo so of course he'd be questioning this seemingly hugely important thing, his deceased parents and his status as an orphan, whereas before he passively accepted Duckworth and Scrooge's presence in his life. He may have registered the fact that other children have parents instead of an uncle and a Duckworth, but it wouldn't be until now that he'd critically engage with it. He's feeling lost and lonely, craving the comforts of childhood while the anxieties of adolescence assert themselves, so he turns to Scrooge for comfort. As he does so, though he can't help but reflect on the glaring elephant in the room: Scrooge isn't actually his father, and his parent's continued existence could have radically altered his world.

And I was going to end the chapter here, with Donald falling asleep, until I realized that's kind of my go-to. I guess its because it seems like an natural end to me, to your day, to your story, but you can't end every single chapter with someone falling asleep. That's just boring. I decided a better way to end the chapter was coming full circle with the resolution of the one-on-one time Donald was craving in the beginning. It provides a nice emotional respite for Donald as well as the reader. We've spent a lot of time in Donald's anxiety riddled head and now we get a moment to breathe as he sets his problems aside. And the reassurance that despite Donald's anxieties regarding his parent's, he has a really good father figure in Scrooge. Earlier, Donald reflects on how other adults treat his loss with pity, commenting "how sad it must be for a child to grow up without ever knowing the tender love and affection of a mother or father." Of course, we know this is untrue. Donald has Scrooge to provide him with these things and here we get an example of just that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Donald, my sweet boy, you've got a big storm coming.


End file.
